


First Against The Wall

by Laurasauras



Series: Crockertier!Bro [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Crockertier, Fights, M/M, Mind Control, Oral Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-27 13:41:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20046970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laurasauras/pseuds/Laurasauras
Summary: What happened between Dad and Bro when Bro caught up to Dave. Side chapter toParanoid Androidand wise to read that one first. Mind those warnings, please.





	First Against The Wall

It’s quite unusual for someone to come to the door in the middle of the day, but you dry your hands carefully on the tea towel and go to answer it despite your confusion. Very probably it will be a salesperson and you’ll be able to get back to cleaning your cupcake tray with just a short interlude.

It’s not a salesperson. It’s a very handsome young man in a very well tailored red suit. You only stare a beat more than is perhaps polite, but you feel the weight of your rudeness just the same. 

‘Good morning,’ you say.

‘Good morning,’ he replies. His mouth shifts very slightly into something just lesser than a smile and you feel that your ogling was noticed. ‘I’m Dave’s brother.’

‘Ah, yes. That explains the accent.’

‘I have an accent?’ he asks. 

‘A lovely one. I’ve always thought …’ His smile increases by a few degrees and you find yourself something close to flustered. Everything from his smooth skin to the slim cut of his trousers is inviting feelings you were not anticipating engaging in this morning. You remind yourself sternly that this is your child’s friend’s guardian, and not a gentleman at a bar.

Your child’s friend’s guardian, whose ward chose to run away from home and who has neglected to tell you why. You absolutely need to pull yourself together.

‘You’re Dave’s brother,’ you repeat, getting yourself back on track.

‘Yes.’

‘You must be worried,’ you say.

He doesn’t look worried. He looks confident. He’s a tall man, but he isn’t making any allowances for the several inches between the two of you. He stands at his full height and looks at you through sharp, tinted glasses as if he’s taking your measure. 

‘I was,’ he says, ‘until I recognised the address his phone said he was at. I knew you’d keep him safe.’

‘We’ve never met,’ you point out.

‘Ambrose Strider,’ he says, holding his hand out.

You barely hesitate, and only that little because you weren’t expecting it, before you take his hand. 

‘James Egbert,’ you say.

His hand is warm, and he has a firm grip. He doesn’t let go when you expect, lingering almost long enough for you to comment before releasing you. You don’t quite know what to do with yourself.

‘I did,’ you say. ‘Keep Dave safe, that is. He didn’t tell me why he left.’

Ambrose frowns and it’s a relief to see expression on his blank face. You’re sure there’s a reasonable explanation for all this.

‘We had a fight,’ he says. ‘I don’t suppose you could let me impose on your hospitality? I feel like I’m tryna sell you encyclopedias or somethin’.’

You laugh, more from politeness than anything else, but you don’t move. You’re charmed by his accent and in your younger days you might have let that sway you, but you’re responsible for a child here. 

‘I’m going to have to be terribly rude, just for a bit longer,’ you say, smiling at him. ‘Could you tell me more about the fight?’

He leans against your doorway, bringing him closer to you. You have a feeling James Dean himself would have taken pointers on how best to lean from this man. It doesn’t inspire you to let him inside or hand over the scared, polite boy you’ve been housing.

‘I dunno if it’ll make sense,’ he sighs. ‘I’ve been workin’ a lot. Can’t not. Long hours, not enough sleep, tryna home-school Dave at the same time, an’ I’m still new at it. Learnin’. I snapped at him somethin’ fierce, never lost my temper like that at him before. I’m on my own, an’ it’s hard, I don’t suppose it’s somethin’ that’ll make sense to a man like you.’

Oh, the poor man. The front door is no place for the kind of heart to heart you believe this requires. 

‘It makes a great deal of sense,’ you say seriously. ‘I’m a widower, myself. I flatter myself that I’ve done the best I can, but … Will you come inside? To my study, I think. We’ll have some privacy there.’

It’s hard to see his eyes through his sunglasses, but he has an intensity about the way he looks around nevertheless. He looks up behind you towards the living room ceiling as he follows your gesturing arm. You look as well, but all you see is the very corner of your staircase. Nothing noteworthy about it. You guide him through to your study.

With him a couple of feet away from you and no longer towering over you, you see the red crown on his head for the first time. How incongruous with a modern man. He catches you staring and takes it off for your inspection.

‘It’s one of those new computers,’ he says. ‘Operated by thought waves, can you imagine? Would you like to try?’

His accent … keeps wavering. Just then, every word was precise and perfect (though with those distinct vowel sounds, like he lingered a little longer than you might on them) and very distinct from the way he’d spoken at the door. Well, actually, very similarly to how he’d spoken as he’d introduced himself. But maybe it was just the absence of ‘ing’ words with which to abandon the ‘g’s. 

‘I think we had better talk more about Dave. Will you sit?’

He places the crown carefully back on his head and sits in your offered chair. You sit too, and watch him closely. There’s something not quite right. And from your admittedly limited experience with Dave, you don’t think he’s the kind to leave because he was yelled at. 

‘I dunno what to tell ya,’ he says, scruffing the back of his neck like a cowboy in a western. 

There it is. He had no trouble saying ‘you’ before. Now that you’ve given him that small rejection, he’s exaggerating his accent again. The accent you said you admired. No, this can’t go any further.

But how to eject him without causing a scene?

‘You said there was a fight,’ you remind him.

He winces as if at the memory. It’s very nearly convincing. You keep your own expression cautiously sympathetic. You believe you could out-muscle even a man as large as him, but it wouldn’t be subtle and it wouldn’t stop him from coming back. You have to consider this.

‘Yeah. He played the “you’re not my real dad” card.’ You make sure to react appropriately, and he continues. ‘And I’m not, but I’ll tell ya it stung. “Real” dad ain’t exactly the one lookin’ after him, is he?’

‘You were upset,’ you prompt.

‘Yelled.’ He grimaces guiltily. ‘Threw a mug. Stupid, I know. I was just tired and mad.’

‘Not worth running away from home over,’ you say.

‘No,’ he agrees.

You see the moment when he figures you out. He stops his act so smoothly, it’s almost hard to follow. It’s the difference between Clark Kent and Superman, except you’ve never seen a Superman look so dangerous. 

He stands up and has his hands on the armrests of your chair so quickly that the movement quite literally blurs in your vision.

‘You’re not giving me Dave back, are you?’ he asks. 

‘No.’

‘In that case, I think you’d better submit.’

‘I think not.’

You grab his tie and rotate your wrist to get a good firm grip of it and punch him in the face with all your strength. He collapses, his legs splayed on the floor in front of your chair, and you hold him up by his tie. 

You’ve never punched a man with everything you’ve got before. But you’ve never trusted a knockout blow less. There’s something about him, some kind of uncanny valley syndrome that has you thinking that it must take more than that to take him out. 

You lift his sunglasses from his face with the hand that’s not holding his tie and throw them to the ground. He peeks under his eyelashes at you, and a second before you’re able to process that he’s conscious, attacks.

He tackles you over the back of your armchair and gets his knees on either side of your ribs. You punch at him again, but he dodges and grabs your wrist as it travels past his head. He holds it to his chest with his forearms. You’re in an uncomfortably intimate situation.

‘Can’t be havin’ ya doin’ that,’ he says. ‘Honey, you got a helluva hook on ya.’

‘Drop the act, Strider,’ you say. ‘What’s the point?’

‘The point, Egbert, is that it’s _fun_.’

He smiles at you. You realise that you may be in serious trouble here. He straightens slightly and looks behind you at nothing you can see, straining your chin up to look. His red eyes, nothing like the red of Dave’s, look strange and unfocused. You try and yank your arm out, but he holds you firm.

‘Priority is Dave,’ he says, his voice much flatter than it has been so far. ‘Submit.’

You struggle again and he looks back down at you. He blinks and his eyes clear somewhat. His mouth tics upwards by several degrees. 

‘She gives me a bit of leeway, you know,’ he says. ‘She’s got robots. She don’t need any more robots. We got a bit of _heart_, humans do. Makes us act all crazy. Hard to predict. Who better to send after humans than humans? So long as you put a collar on the bastards.’ He tilts his head to the side and his mouth advances to a stage you might describe as a wry smile. ‘Right now, she’s pretty keen for me to knock you out and get on with it. But my crazy human impulses are like, “Dude, let a bro have some fun!” and she’s programmed herself into a little corner because those instincts are exactly why there ain’t some robot here right now.’

You don’t know what he’s talking about, but you find yourself staring at that shiny red crown he’s wearing. Perhaps if you can grab it with your left hand …

‘Let’s go get my boy. I’ll need you all awake and lookin’ at me like you hate me if we’re gonna have fun.’

He lets you go and moves away so quickly you can’t decide if he ran or if he just teleported. What you do know is he isn’t in the room. You rub your wrist where he held it and stand. You don’t know if you’ve ever felt your age as severely as right now. You still have your strength, you remind yourself. It doesn’t quite feel like enough. 

You follow him upstairs and find him in John’s room, holding one of Dave’s shirts. The boys aren’t there. 

‘Not in the house,’ he says to you. ‘Davey’s smart, did you know? Probably could hide from me, if it were just me.’

‘You will not harm that boy,’ you tell him.

He shrugs off his red suit jacket and tosses it so it lands over the back of John’s desk chair. You do not appreciate him making himself so at home, especially not in your son’s room. 

‘I think you might know where they’re off to,’ he says. ‘Aren’t I a clever boy for not killing you earlier like an overzealous robot might have?’

You can’t win this fight. You’re not fast enough, and you may have finally found your match physically as well. You run. 

You make it into the hallway before he slams you into the wall so hard that the plaster cracks in a crater around the impact. You slide down the wall for maybe a foot before you recover and twist, kicking at his legs. He laughs as he falls onto his back and before you even make it to the stairs he’s tackling you down them.

You squeeze your eyes shut against the many impacts as you fall down the stairs and gasp for breath when you land. He can’t laugh anymore, he’s winded too, and you manage to push away from him and get up before his diaphragm recovers. You glance behind you to see him straightening his crown and then in a blur of movement he’s on you again. 

You punch out and connect with something, but it doesn’t stop him. He pins your arms to your side and lifts you up like you’re a child. You can’t kick your way free, no matter how much you struggle. _He can’t be human_.

‘Oh, she’s got some words in my head, sugar, you have no idea,’ he says. ‘Betty, baby, I promise you, reproduction don’t got shit to do with it.’

He takes you back to your study and sits you in your desk chair. You fight him for every inch, but he manages to get your arms behind your back. 

‘Never been a tie guy,’ he says as he fastens your wrists together. ‘Never liked anything touching my neck much. Handy for bondage on the go, though, is that why you kinky office fuckers wear them?’

He spins you around so you’re facing him and grabs your legs when you kick at him. He looks down at his hands around your ankles and sighs, though he hasn’t stopped smiling. He runs his fingers up the backs of your calves and you shiver uncomfortably, trying to back away. 

‘I can appreciate other guys in ties, though. Which is why it ain’t that much trouble for me if you’re gonna be occupying my hands like that. Is that a double windsor? I do like showing off.’

He keeps his hands on your knees, fingers pressing in on them with uncomfortable strength that makes you afraid to test him; you think he knows exactly how to dislocate them. He gets to his feet and leans over you until his face is near your neck. You jerk your body in an effort to headbutt him, but he’s too low. You can’t even bite him. 

You feel your tie shift against your collar, and then a moment later he’s dragging his chin down your chest as he unties the first knot with his teeth. 

‘_She_,’ you say, still not quite sure who the mysterious woman behind all of this is, but able to pick up on enough from his ramblings, ‘controls what you wear as well?’

‘Gotta represent the brand,’ he says. He pulls at your tie again and it comes loose. You don’t know that you take it off that smoothly with your hands at the end of the day. He drops the tie onto your knees and starts using it to fasten your ankles to the base of your chair. ‘Thought I looked alright as I was, if I’m being honest. Who trusts a man in a suit?’

He finishes and leans back on his ankles, smiling at his handiwork. He runs a thumb down the smooth line of his jaw as he looks you up and down.

‘This is ridiculous, Egbert, they never teach you to undo your top button when you take off your tie?’

He flicks open your button to expose your neck and you glare at him. He cocks his head to the side contemplatively and undoes the next one as well.

‘What do you want with me?’ you ask, trying very hard to keep your temper in check. You thought his full height was intimidating when you were allowed to stand as well, it’s something quite monstrous when you’re on such an unequal level.

‘Where’d the boys go?’ he asks.

‘I don’t know.’

‘I think you’re lying. How about we get you on team?’

He reaches up to his head and takes off his crown. Evidently you didn’t damage the damn thing during your fight. He holds it in his hands and stares at it like it’s a priceless treasure. You don’t think he wants to give it up, not even to infect you.

You haven’t seen tech exactly like this before, but your mother never expected to die before her own controlling woman was done with her. You wonder … if maybe you can fight it off.

He snaps out of it and places the crown gently on your head. It forces the hair that had escaped your usually neat style to flatten uncomfortably in your face, and he corrects that with gentle fingers. You want to shake it off, just to inconvenience him, but you feel instinctively that you’re better off saving your strength for now.

At first, nothing happens. It’s heavier than you expected. You stare into Strider’s eyes, trying to get a hint of what is going to happen to you.

Then, very smoothly, red lines map across the room, surrounding the edges of all the objects and then disappearing again. You frown slightly, confused. _What was that?_

Augmented reality initialising . . . 

Augmented … you don’t know what that means, though it sounds _familiar_. 

A technology that superimposes a computer-generated image on a user's view of the real world, thus providing a composite view. 

The text sits on Strider’s white shirt, making it easy to read. When you turn your head more towards his face, the text adjusts so you don’t have to read red against his skin. Under other circumstances, you might be rather impressed. To illustrate the point, you see one of those Pikachu monsters that John likes scampering on the floor. This Pikachu looks like a little dragon. 

The Pikachu stops moving and text hovers next to him.

Charmander: the lizard Pokémon. The flame that burns at the tip of its tail is an indication of its emotions. The flame wavers when Charmander is enjoying itself.

You take it that Charmander is this specific Pikachu’s name. You never could keep up with all of them, there were at least 20. You wonder what else this device can do.

Wait. No. You’re supposed to be resisting it. Though you’re not quite sure what to resist, nothing’s attacking you. You can see how you might access the Google, but you will not. You’ll just sit here, passively holding the crown on your head.

‘How do you find it?’ Strider asks.

‘Very impressive technology. Please let me free.’

He smiles and leans against your desk. 

‘Nah.’

‘You’re …’

very unpleasant, disgusting, nasty, terrible, dreadful, ghastly, horrid, horrible, vile, foul, abominable, appalling, atrocious, horrendous, hideous, offensive, objectionable, obnoxious, frightful, loathsome, revolting, repulsive, repellent, repugnant, odious, sickening, nauseating, nauseous, diabolical, yucky, hellacious, lousy

Well, those certainly are some words you could use. 

‘You have the device on me. Now let me free.’

‘Took her a while to get her gnarled claws into me and I was using that thing with more enthusiasm than a kid in a porn shop. I’m thinkin’ we gotta lower those inhibitions of yours, huh. You’re very uptight.’

He moves, and red lines flicker over his silhouette as the crown tracks him. The second you think of it as annoying and distracting, they disappear. He kneels in front of you. 

‘What are you doing?’ you ask.

Pictures flick next to him, comparing his stance to a commoner in front of a king, a man asking for forgiveness, a man naked and waiting to perform. You didn’t need the help imagining that, actually. The pictures vanish.

‘Think you probably want to submit,’ he says.

SUBMIT flashes bright and red over all of your vision. You try to flinch away from it, but unlike previous times when the interface has reacted instantly to your preferences, it lingers, burning the word into your eyes. You shake your head, but still the word remains.

It fades just as quickly as it came, and you realise that you weren’t aware of Strider coming closer to you while it was the only thing you could see. He’s undoing your belt with casual slowness.

You buck your hips and his hands fall off you. He looks up and raises an eyebrow. His eyes don’t quite look the same as before, there’s an orange hue to the redness. The crown helpfully gives you a series of numbers after a pound sign.

‘I’m good,’ he assures you. ‘And the logic very nearly checks out. She hasn’t got rid of the wanting, anyway, just the _morality_ of it all. You ready to obey?’

OBEY drowns out your vision, but this time you’re straining to feel him around it. It’s hard, it feels like OBEY is all that you’re aware of, but you can feel the faint pressure of your zipper going down. By the time you have your eyes back, he’s reaching into your underwear to pull your cock out.

You should tell him not to. You should at least try. The crown doesn’t do a thing to stop you from seeing the hungry way he’s staring at you, the way his throat moves as he swallows. _Pull yourself together._

He keeps his hands on your upper thighs once he has your cock free and waits. You don’t know what for. One of his thumbs is tracing a pattern on your inseam. Will he just get _on_ with it?

BEG.

It doesn’t last nearly as long, barely allowing you a reprieve from the attractive young man on his knees in front of you, but the message is clear. He wants you to ask for it. He’s that confident in the effect he has on you. Well, you won’t.

‘Let me free,’ you ask again.

He shakes his head, looking up at you. His perfect face is red where you hit him, but it doesn’t mar his handsomeness. He doesn’t take his eyes off you as he presses a small kiss to your inner thigh, so gentle you barely feel it through your pants.

You are, despite your best intentions, struggling to convince your body that you don’t want what he’s offering. And your inability to entirely suppress that unwise want is starting to show.

‘Is that your plan, then? To interrogate me with humiliation?’

‘You ain’t got nothin’ deservin’ of humility, honey,’ he says, grinning at you. ‘Nah, come on, it’s nothin’ like that. I just want you to admit you want it before I give it to ya.’

You raise your chin and stare at the wall. You don’t need to engage. 

Suddenly, everything is red, disorienting you as blinking and flinching back does nothing to change the solid colour overwhelming your senses. You shake your head, but nothing changes. You’re not sure what direction you’re facing, it’s too much to focus through. 

SUBMIT. OBEY. CONSUME. CEASE REPRODUCTION. 

‘Egbert?’ Strider asks, but his voice is being drowned out by the kind of white noise that you catch in between radio stations, louder and louder. 

Your mind is being attacked. You feel your mouth move without your permission.

‘Please.’

You’re not sure if it’s the machine forcing you to beg like Strider wants or your own body wanting the cacophony of stimulus to go away, but Strider interprets it as invitation to put his mouth to your cock and _suck_.

Suddenly all the distractions of the computerised crown vanish and you’re left with nothing shielding you from the sensation that is his incredibly enthusiastic mouth. You buck your hips in an effort to throw him off, but he groans and doesn’t back off, taking more of you into his mouth. 

‘_Fuck_,’ you swear. 

You shouldn’t be enjoying this. You shouldn’t be this hard. His tongue runs along the swollen edge of your head and you tip your neck back reflexly. 

He slides his lips over you faster, his fist wrapped around your base and you struggle to maintain your dignity. He’s too good, and you’re struggling to remember why you don’t want to make your pleasure obvious. 

He slurps off you and works you over with his hand. You look down at him and meet his orange eyes.

‘Ready to join the red team?’ he asks. 

‘Submit,’ your mouth says.

‘Consume?’ he asks, his smile ironic. 

‘Dear God, yes.’

He grins wickedly before lowering himself back to your cock. He licks back up to your head before closing his lips messily over you. Something’s changed. Some inhibition you had is gone. 

You don’t care that his mouth makes you groan or that the red light is back. It’s an easily acceptable part of reality and it doesn’t stop you from taking in the wondrous sight that is your cock disappearing between his beautiful lips. You thrust your hips up and towards him and he takes it with enthusiasm. 

Your wrists and ankles are still bound, but you don’t feel the urgency in it anymore. You’re wearing a crown and this is your throne. Ambrose is at your service. 

You buck into him, using his mouth and he _takes_ you. The lights from your crown cast a beautiful red glow over Ambrose’s cheekbones as he hollows them, sucking you down as you fuck his face. 

You grunt as you come. He lets your cock rest heavy on his tongue as it pulses in and around his mouth. White drips down his face and off his chin. He looks up at you, somehow proud in his debauched state. 

He licks his lips.

‘Tell me what I want to hear, Egbert.’

‘Obey,’ you say.

He grins and leans forward to untie you. You grab him by the throat and hold him still as you lick his chin clean. He stares up at you lustfully. 

‘Submit.’

‘Yeah,’ he agrees. ‘I’m gonna jerk it real quick and we gotta get on the road. We ain’t gonna catch our boys if we spend all day following our urges.’

You hesitate, your fingers firm on his neck. 

‘You need to complete my conversion,’ you tell him.

‘So like, half a day following these urges and then we do the boring shit?’

‘Yes,’ you say. 

Ambrose grins and stands up. You follow him to your bedroom, red light bouncing off the white walls.


End file.
